


Arthur and Merlin: Highlights

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, Childhood, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Goofus and Gallant, Growing Up, Homophobic Language, M/M, Puberty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Merlin always walks with the scissors pointing down. Arthur always runs with the scissors pointing up. One day, he runs smack into Merlin.</i>
</p><p>Arthur and Merlin's relationship from childhood onwards, Goofus and Gallant style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur and Merlin: Highlights

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2012 for a kmm prompt requesting Arthur/Merlin à la Goofus and Gallant from the ubiquitous-at-dentist's-and-other-childhood-torture-establishments _Highlights_ Magazine. Familiarity with the comic is not necessary to enjoy this (I hope), but I encourage you to google it anyway, as there are far more clever, wicked treatments of G &G out there that deserve eyeballs.

**~ At 7 ~**

Merlin _always_ walks with the scissors pointing down. He has a long, shimmering row of gold stars for safety on Miss K's chart.

Arthur always runs with the scissors pointing up. One day, he runs smack into Merlin.

So, despite all his gold stars, Merlin is the one suddenly on his back, stunned and helpless, blowing spit bubbles at the ceiling and wondering why his arm stings. He thinks he might know how the class tortoise feels after Arthur and his mates get their hands on her.

"Ow," he whimpers as the sting becomes a throbbing _burn._

For a moment, Arthur's eyes are round and blue and surprised as he leans over Merlin. Then his face pinches in; his eyes go grey and skitter away.

"You should watch where you're going, Merl-blah," he sneers.

As Merlin's tears well up, Arthur races off down the corridor, shouting, "Miss! Miss! Merlin's bleeding all over the new carpet!"

Merlin gets five stitches and a tetanus jab at A&E, and a brand new box of crayons from his mum for being brave about it all. It's the deluxe set, with five separate shades of green, three of purple, and – best of all – _metallics._

As Merlin always shares with others, Arthur included, most of the crayons are gone or horribly mutilated within a week. The worst part is that Arthur doesn’t even _draw_ with them. Mostly he smashes them into missiles he can lob at Gwen's cardboard castle when he thinks no one's looking.

On Miss K's chart, Arthur has a long, _glaring_ row of blank boxes next to "Respects Others' Person/Property."

* * *

**~ At 10 ~**

"Let's see it, then, this supposed dragon's egg."

Arthur barges past Merlin. He stares up at the cupboard for a moment, arms akimbo, before rattling one drawer-pull after another. Merlin knows he didn’t wash his hands after their tea, so they're bound to be sticky with jam.

"Don’t," Merlin pleads. "I'm not allowed in here without permission. Wait 'til my dad gets back."

Arthur glances over his shoulder, face scrunched likes he's caught a bad smell. "Why would you need _permission_ to play with stuff in your own house? That's stupid."

"Yeah, well… whatever. We have to wait for him anyway, because it's – "

"Bet I could pick it," Arthur interrupts, grinning.

"No! Arthur, just – _no."_

Arthur shrugs, turning back to the cupboard "He won’t even notice," he mutters. "My father never does." He delivers the cupboard a solid kick that rattles the unseen contents. 

Merlin watches Arthur's shoulders hunch up, and knows the next thing out of his mouth will be something dismissive and hateful that Merlin doesn’t want to hear and would never, _ever_ say. He was taught to always be gracious, to excuse himself politely and with a minimum of fuss. 

The sad truth is that Merlin doesn’t care how rude Arthur is; he just doesn’t want him to leave now that he's finally got him all to himself.

"C'mon," he urges. "Mum left my chore money. Let's go see if Hengist's got the new Panini World Cup packs. You can have first pick."

They find two foil stickers between their three packs – the ones Merlin likes best because they're shiny, no matter who's on them – and Arthur claims them both. Arthur always takes the best for himself.

* * *

**~ At 13 ~**

"Do it, Merla," Arthur commands, breath furling round his face before dissipating in the chilly air. "What are you waiting for?"

Arthur always bosses his mates. 

Merlin always asks what others would like to do. Which has _a lot_ to do with how he got into this mess, actually – the old wishing tree scratchy and solid at his back, the ring of expectant faces. 

Arthur is in the middle. He crowds in close, prodding Merlin's chest, grabbing for his ears. 

Arthur never keeps his hands to himself.

"Alright, Arthur, _alright,"_ Merlin says, twisting away. With clumsy fingers, he rucks up his PE sweatshirt, drops his shorts and pants. When he's fully exposed, he looks round the circle with his bravest smile. 

Merlin always tries to make the best of an awkward situation.

"Holy anaconda," Morgana breathes just as Gwen gasps, _"Merlin!_ That is… ohmygod did it just _move by itself?"_

Will gives him a high-five. The others laugh or turn away self-consciously, but Arthur just stares. And _stares._ Merlin tells himself that it's just because Arthur hasn't any manners and likely never will, not because he's… well, actually _fascinated_ in any way by Merlin's genitals, which have been undergoing rather drastic changes of late.

Merlin pulls up his shorts and (politely) pushes past them all, heading back towards the warmth of the games shed.

Later, as they make their way home, Arthur kicks the can he's been playing with firmly into touch against the kerb and rounds on Merlin, saying, "It's not _that_ big. I've seen bigger. And why were your nuts all shrivelled like that? You been wanking too much, thinking about my sister's new tits, you dirty perv?"

"I – "

Arthur shoves Merlin, hard, and races away.

Merlin is left doubled over with his mouth hanging open, watching as Arthur's golden head and red coat are swallowed up by the holiday crowds.  
"It was cold," he whispers, because it's not polite to ignore someone's question. Plus it keeps him from wondering why Arthur is so concerned about his balls. And his wanking habits.

Merlin _tries_ to anticipate others' needs and put them before his own, but thinking about Arthur's needs in this particular instance melts his brain a little bit. Or a lot. 

* * *

**~ At 16 ~**

Arthur breaks up with his latest, Vivian, via text message. He tells anyone who will listen that he is through with Five Kingdoms girls, that they aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Merlin listens. Merlin is always a very good listener.

He withdraws a fortnight's worth of wages from the cashpoint, takes Freya to the cosy Italian place that has real candles in real Chianti bottles, and calmly (well, mostly) explains that he thinks he's gay. 

Freya's not even his girlfriend. She just a friend who's a girl who he's spent rather a lot of time with since Arthur and Elyan discovered the Catholic boarding school across town, Will took up rugby, and Gwen discovered Lance _and_ took up rugby. 

Not that Merlin has a problem with girls doing sport – his own mum had been a whiz at hockey in her day – nor that he assumes that Freya thinks they are more than just mates, but he wants to be perfectly clear. Because that is the right thing to do.

He tells Freya all of this, plus how merciless Arthur is in his teasing of Gwen – how Merlin worries what will happen if Lance moves back to France and is no longer there to be Belgium, by which he means a buffer.

"Not to speak ill of someone who's absent, but Arthur can be _very_ annoying."

"Aw, sounds like someone has a crush," Freya says, smirking and reaching for the bread.

"Do you think?" Merlin tries not to sound as miserable as he feels. After all, jealousy is unbecoming; he should be happy for others' good fortune.

He forks up a modest mouthful of Bolognese, chews it thoroughly, and swallows before saying, "Arthur and Gwen would be alright together, I guess. Both sporty, ambitious. Pretty hair."

Freya stares at him with a very odd expression. Then she tells him that he's the dog's bollocks and all but, gay or straight, he's _far_ too vanilla for her tastes.

"But I _love_ chocolate," Merlin protests. He just doesn't make a big deal out of it or walk around shoving Hobnobs in his face, like _some people._ Because that would be rude.

A week later, Arthur is packed off to a posh boarding school up in the highlands. The official word is that it's to do with his marks, and preparing for a place at his father's old college, but Morgana tells them Arthur was caught in the games shed with Cenred, doing something they oughtn't.

"Why would Arthur take drugs?" Merlin says. He would never _ever_ take drugs, and he doesn't think Arthur would either. Not with what they'd done to his mum. Even if those had been the legal sort.

"Who says it was drugs?" Morgana murmurs, winking, but Merlin is lost in a memory of the first time he was invited back to the Pendragons' house, the locked room that Arthur broke into with well-practised ease, showing Merlin the photographs of his bright-eyed, dying mother.

He feels sick to his stomach, almost as bad as the day he arrived home to find his own mum in tears and men from the Home Office carting off the contents of his dad's study. 

He pushes his burger towards Will and his chips towards Gwen, because he never wastes food. He wonders why he's so upset at losing his own personal bully.

"Don't worry, poppet." Morgana tweaks his nose, startling him from his thoughts. "There's always texts and e-mails, and weekend trains. He'll be pulling your hair again in no time."

* * *

**~ At 19 ~**

"I want to see," Arthur says, looming over Merlin's shoulder. "Give it here."

Merlin pushes back (gently) and holds the casting sheet out of reach. Arthur may be broader in the shoulders, blessed with lean muscle and a clever pair of hands, but Merlin is taller. Not that he would ever boast about it.

"No, Arthur, that should be, 'Excuse me, are you finished with that?' "

Arthur snorts and makes a grab for the paper. "C'mon, Merls. Let's see what kind of faggoty bit part they gave you. Court Poofter? Lord Cocksley's squire?"

"I'm the rebel chieftain," Merlin says, still in awe. Sure, he'd been hoping for a few lines, but he'd never expected one of the leads.

"What? Bollocks! Here, let me – "

Arthur tackles Merlin to the floor, keeps him pinned with thighs, hips and one hand on the back of his head. With the other, he scrabbles for the sheet of paper. There is a tearing sound as he wrenches it from Merlin's grasp. 

Arthur is impatient and careless. Merlin is careful, and does not mind waiting – especially not with Arthur's fingers in his hair, and the whole, hot weight of him pressing Merlin into the tiles. 

Merlin makes do with what he's given. There are days he still can't believe Arthur is really _here,_ in Camelot, making his life at uni just as fraught and complicated as he'd done back in Ealdor.

"Huh." Arthur releases Merlin's head and sits up. "So you are. You pack of arse-bandits sure stick together. Who am I, then? I know I sang the pants off that Leon fellow."

Merlin always assists those in need, so he holds up the (now crumpled) bottom third of the sheet. 

"You're my messenger," he says, twisting his neck, trying to catch Arthur's eye. Eye contact and sincerity are essential when delivering bad news. "And one of the miscellaneous knights and courtiers. Could you shift a bit, please? I can't see you properly."

"What the bloody _fuck?"_ Arthur pitches forward again to grab the scrap of paper. "I'll let you see me when I'm good and ready, Merl-blah."

Merlin never gets in fights. Normally, he solves his problems with words. But Arthur's never been good at listening to words, and his full weight is now centred on Merlin's bum and lower back. It is both exquisite and _painful,_ and Merlin desperately needs to get away. He takes a deep breath, internally apologizes to his mum, and bucks up.

The scuffle is brief, the element of surprise and Merlin's sharp elbows no match for Arthur's years of rugby and wrestling. He winds up half on his side, one knee jammed up into his chest, held there by Arthur's arm locked tight round the back of his thigh.

Arthur hovers over him, panting, cursing and _bearing down,_ just a little, where his groin meets Merlin's left buttock. And there is something undeniably _there,_ something more than denim and zip. Something firm and pudgy and…

Merlin doesn’t know what the correct behaviour is in this situation. His brain short-circuits a little. Or a lot.

"Why do you even care?" he yells. "You only came to the audition to take the piss. You only do _anything_ to take the piss! Trading rooms with Gwaine, pitching up at gaysoc and ruining my chances with – hell, Arthur, why are you even _here?_ Everyone knows Camelot's crap for urban studies; you had a place at London Albion. Do you honestly – "

"Hey, is that mine?" Arthur cuts in, eyes gone wide. He lets go of Merlin's leg and grabs his upper arm, bunching the sleeve up to his shoulder.

Arthur always interrupts people. Arthur doesn't ask permission before touching. Arthur's hands are always sure, and calloused, and often sticky with jam.

Arthur traces the scar with his thumb. It's faint now, stretched into a narrow diamond of shiny, hairless skin. Most people only notice it in the cold, when it goes purple.

Merlin swallows the rest of his rant, staring at Arthur's hand on his skin. Staring at _Arthur_ who, as long as Merlin can remember, has been shoving his nose and feet and fingers – his entire rude, impossible _self_ – into every corner of Merlin's existence, waking and non.

"Yes," he chokes out. Then he repeats it louder and more clearly, because Merlin always enunciates.

"Yes, Arthur. _Yours."_

Their eyes meet, and this time Arthur's don't skitter away. They stare at one another for what feels like ages, catching their breath.

Then Arthur grins. "Good," he says, scrambling off of Merlin and offering him a hand up. " 'Cause you know I don’t like to share."

He doesn't let go as they leave the performing arts centre and make their way back towards the residence halls. 

Merlin, for once, appreciates the fact that Arthur always rushes to get where he's going, heedless of all obstacles.

* * *

**~ At 22 ~**

Arthur no longer runs with scissors.

Merlin doesn't let him _have_ scissors, actually, except the safety kind you'd give to toddlers. Merlin doesn't let him handle the sharp knives either, tells him it's because he is world's best vegetable peeler and can't possibly be spared for other kitchen duties.

Merlin believes in using positive reinforcement. And maybe a bit of trickery. (Merlin has changed too; he still asks permission, but he doesn't always say please, because sometimes Arthur _needs_ to be bossed.)

For their anniversary, Arthur hands him a chart, just like Miss K's back in the day, except this one has a _very_ different skillset listed down the side. He licks his fingers, sticky with strawberry guts, and shoves them in his pocket, pulling out a packet of stickers – glittery stars in gold and silver and every shade of the rainbow.

"Do you know, the only star I ever got back then was for attendance? And games. Whereas you had _miles_ of them."

Merlin looks over the list, heat pooling in his groin. He reaches for a pencil and adds "fellatio" beneath "cocksucking," "irrumatio" beneath "skullfucking," and so on, because it's important to call things by their proper names.

"Well then," he says, finishing "anilingus" off with a little flourish. He glances up at the clock, judging that they have two hours before the roast needs to come out, and a bit longer before their mates arrive. "If we're going to rectify the situation, I think we'd best get started."

Merlin knows that, when there is hard work to be done, there is no time like the present.

Four stickers later, he's practically sobbing into a pillow, bum high in the air as Arthur works it over with tongue and fingers and a purple vibrating wand Merlin's pretty sure he stole from his sister. 

He's never been so glad in his life that Arthur doesn't keep his hands to himself, that he takes things that aren’t technically his and pokes his nose and fingers (and a few other bits besides) into places they don't exactly belong.

Later, after their guests leave, they hang the chart over their bed. They loll about in their pants, gazing up at the seven brand-new sparkly stars.

"Want to try for eight?" Arthur says, jostling Merlin with one foot.

Merlin closes his eyes, sending up a silent prayer for his poor cock. He thinks it might actually be chafed in a couple of places. 

"Not until you learn to take better care of your playthings."

* * *

**~ And After That ~**

Whenever Arthur has a bad day at the council planning office, he pesters Merlin about earning a new star.

Whenever there are dry spells between callbacks and cracks begin to appear in Merlin's self-esteem, Arthur pulls him close and says, "Remember, Merlin, my taste is impeccable, and I _always_ keep the best for myself."

**~ THE END ~**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Highlights (The Canon-Era Cover Version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430626) by [Thursday_Next](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday_Next/pseuds/Thursday_Next)




End file.
